89

EZRA

I don’t even remember how I got here.

I think I drove. Or maybe the car drove me.

After I left her house—after she cried and begged and I still shoved that thing down her throat like the coward I am—I didn’t go far. I just kept driving until my hands stopped shaking.

It didn’t take long.

Barely a mile out, I saw the first bar sign flickering in red neon. Like a goddamn invitation to spiral. So I parked, walked in, and fell straight into the pit I carved myself.

I don’t even ask for a drink. Just throw my card on the bar and mutter something about whiskey. Or maybe vodka. Or both.

Doesn’t matter.

The bartender gets it. Quiet type. He swipes, replaces, swipes again.

I’ve downed maybe four, five bottles now.

Not that it helps.

Vampire physiology means human alcohol barely scratches the surface. I’d have to drink the whole cellar to feel a buzz. But I keep drinking anyway.

Just for the burn.

Just for the distraction.

The liquor slides down my throat like regret—fast, sharp, useless.

I rest my head against the counter, breathing through my teeth like it might calm the ache. It doesn’t.

God, it hurts.

I thought breaking the bond would feel like ripping off a chain. Like breathing fresh air again. 

But all it feels like is suffocating without her.

Because love doesn’t always mean stay.

Sometimes it means get the hell out before you ruin them worse.

And I love her so much, I had to leave.

Didn’t I?

I don’t even know how to cry anymore.

Not like her.

She cried with her whole body. Her soul. I could feel it cracking open in my arms and I still did it. Still chose the curse over the cure.

I wish I could’ve cried with her.

I wish I didn’t know what it feels like to break someone you still crave in every molecule of your being.

I take another swig straight from the bottle.

The bar’s more crowded now. Music’s louder. Evening’s settling like dusk wrapped in cigarette smoke and poor decisions.

I keep my head low. Not trying to be seen. Just trying to exist.

But then—

I glance up.

Just casually. Just the way someone checks the mirror and doesn't expect to see the car behind them.

My eyes scan the crowd as I bring the bottle to my lip and take another swig.

And I see her.

In a yellow dress.

Sitting. Speaking.

With him.

Malik.

My brother.

The fuck.ing bastard.

My breath goes still.

The bottle slips just a little in my hand. Not enough to fall, just enough to tremble.

She doesn’t see me. Neither of them do.

But I see everything.

The closeness.

The way she’s leaning in just a bit too much, eyes puffy, cheeks flushed.

The tilt of her lips.

And Malik—

He’s looking at her like… like he’s found a new plaything.

Like he knows what he’s holding.

Like he’s forgotten she was mine.

My knuckles whiten around the bottle.

And all I can hear in my head is her voice.

Begging.

Crying.

Saying please, Ezra. Please don’t do this.

But I did.

I did.

I let her go.

So why the hell does it feel like someone’s slicing me open from the inside just watching her now?

And worse—

Why do I still want to tear him off her and scream mine?

I shut my eyes and grit my teeth and when I peel them open, my eyes land on her.

She leans in closer.

Too close.

She whispers something to him and it’s the look on Malik’s face that undoes me. That stupid, gentle, curious look.

Like he’s about to catch her when I’m the one who let her fall.

I seeth.

“Fucking bastard.” I growl.

And then…

Malik glances up, his eyes meeting mine.

Dead center. Across the bar. Across the noise. Across all the goddamn time I’ve spent trying not to fall apart.

And he knows.

That bastard knows I’m here.

He holds the stare.

Then—

He turns to her. Leans in. And kisses her.

My heart stops.

My world tilts.

His lips touch hers and it’s like watching someone take a lighter to my memories. Every kiss I ever gave her. Every breath we ever shared. Every moment of “I love you” woven between shattered silences.

He kisses her.

My Thea.

My mate.

My bonded mate—even if the magic is gone.

And for a second, the whole bar blurs. The sound cuts out. The lights flicker in my periphery like warning signals before an explosion.

I growl.

Low and deep and inhuman.

The bottle slips from my hand and crashes against the ground, shattering like my control. Liquor and glass splash across my boots, but I don’t feel a damn thing.

I’m already moving.

No hesitation. No second thought.

Just rage.

I shoot across the room in a blink—nothing but wind and wrath—and before Malik can even pull away, I yank him off her like ripping rot from a wound.

Thea gasps.

Malik stumbles, confused.

But my fist is already swinging.

Crack.

Right to the jaw.

Malik’s head snaps sideways, blood blooming from his lip, but he recovers fast—faster than I expected—and lunges at me with his own hit.

And just like that—

The brothers are gone.

All that’s left?

Blood.

Magic.

And the woman caught in between.

The punch lands hard across my cheek, his fist searing like acid.

I reel back, spit blood, then lunge again.

My hand blazes crimson, runes pulsing just beneath the skin. When my knuckles connect with his ribs, the air crackles and he grunts, stumbling back.

But he doesn't fall. Instead, he grins tauntingly. 

“Really, brother?” he pants, flicking blood off his lip. “You let her go. Why are you acting like a pained motherfucker now?”

I snarl before slamming into him again, a blur of rage and flame, and we crash into the next table, splinters exploding into the air. Screams echo from all sides—bar-goers ducking, fleeing, shouting.

Chairs clatter. Bottles smash.

Dust fills the air.

But we don’t stop.

Because he touched her.

He fucking touched her.

Our fists fly like war drums—crack, thud, bang—echoes of violence born from love and brotherhood and betrayal.

He slams me against the wall, I knee him in the gut. I throw him back with a blood flare, but he whips around and kicks me in the ribs, sending me crashing into a table.

We’re tearing through the bar like gods with no heaven to fall back on.

How dare he touch what’s mine?

Magic pulses with every hit—blood-red veins glowing under our skin like ancient language etched in rage. The air thickens with it.

And then—

A chill. Cold. Ancient.

Wrong.

I freeze, just a breath.

Enough for Malik’s next punch to hit me square in the jaw.

I stagger back—but not from the hit.

Something is coming.

My instincts scream louder than my rage.

I turn slowly, the pain in my body suddenly irrelevant compared to the fear inching down my spine.

The bar dims.

Then—

Everything goes dark.

Like the light itself got sucked out of the room.

And there, just behind the broken bar counter, a rift slices open in midair.

The portal.

The Underworld’s gate.

My throat tightens. I feel every nerve in my body light up.

Not now. Not here.

“Fuck,” Malik mutters beside me.

I don’t respond.

Because I know.

I know this power. I’ve felt it once—and it took me a year to recover.

This is the Enforcer.

The twelfth elder.

The one they only send when it’s gotten too far.

The other eleven?

They loan him just enough power to bring down the unthinkable.

And we? The Shadow Princes?

We’re not just rebels.

We’re the fucking reason they keep that much power in reserve.

The portal widens.

And then—

He steps out.

Tall. Unnaturally elegant. Wings like spilled blood, stretching wide across the bar like death in silk form. Hair dark, swept back. Eyes glowing red but calm, like fire that doesn’t need to roar to consume.

He’s beautiful.

And terrifying.

He tilts his head, taking in the chaos. Broken tables. Screaming, fading in the distance. Malik, panting. Me, snarling.

And then, he speaks.

Smooth. Cold. Final.

“That’s enough rules broken for one year.”

His fingers twitch.

And just like that—

Snap.

Something wraps tight around my neck.

A rope.

But not rope. It hums. It burns. It pulses like it’s alive.

I claw at it, trying to tear it off—

But it’s useless.

The moment it touches you, it becomes part of you. A leash you can’t escape. One infused with the will of the Council.

Beside me, Malik gasps. Another snap. He’s bound too.

The air around us freezes in time.

I glance toward Thea—crumpled on the floor, unconscious, dress torn slightly, a bruise forming on her cheek from when the fight broke out near her.

My rage returns, but the rope tightens and cuts it short.

The Enforcer doesn’t even look at her.

His eyes are only for us.

For me.

“You know the rules, Ezra,” he says. “And now… it’s time to pay the price.”

Then, he pulls and like metal to magnet, we are flowing toward him.

My gaze finds her again. And I suddenly wish she's awake.

I still haven't told her I love her.

It took me so long to realise I did. 

And now, this is the end.